Bad Livers and Broken Hearts
by saoulbete
Summary: His cell phone rings, flashing her name, and he fights back the sick feeling in his throat, because he can't help but feeling as though he's betraying someone who understands.


A/N More drunk!jack. And Drunk Stabler too for good measure. And Tom Waits. What's not to love?

* * *

He'd had a vague idea of what he was getting into when he'd run into the woman, asked her out to dinner, the same as he'd done to thousands before her. He hadn't known who she was at the time-it wasn't until later, long after they'd had dinner and moved on to drinks that he'd found out. After all, there were thousands of Kathy's in the city. So when she'd mentioned her last name, Jack McCoy did his best not to do a spit-take, not to show any sign of recognizing the name. After all, all they knew about each other was that he was a lawyer of some kind, she was the soon-to-be-ex-wife of a cop. He didn't even know the detective in question very well-he knew the man by reputation, by how many slam dunk cases the man had blown, but he wasn't about to tell a potential conquest that her not-quite ex was quite possibly off his rocker.

He hadn't expected, however, after their third date-even though neither of them makes any pretensions about this being serious, about this ever going to be more than a multiple-night-stand to run into her soon-to-be ex at McKillians. There was a reason why he liked the bar-it was a favorite watering hole of the detectives that kept his office in business. It was often he'd find all manner of men and women in blue cluttering up the place having to shove his way between them to get his drink. "Hey there counselor." He recognizes the man, it's hard not to, and he nods his acknowledgment of the younger man, ordering his usual scotch. "What brings you here?" The man has obviously been here for a while, and unfocused eyes settle on him.

"Good whiskey." He holds up his drink. He gives the man an appraising eye. He's always been able to hold his own in street fights, but he hasn't had to put that to the test in over a decade, and the man in front of him had earned the nickname Detective Steroid from perps for a reason.

"Better beer." A mug is held up for a toast, and there's the soft clink of glass on glass. He knows the other man knows nothing. Or at least, if not nothing, than not about him.

"I can't get drunk off of beer."

"Why not?"

"Fill up too fast." There's a snort into the white foam at the top of his glass.

"You could use some meat on those bones, Mr. McCoy."

"It's Jack when I'm not in the courtroom." There's a sudden melancholy look on the detective's face, one that he recognizes all too well, and he flags down the bartender for a refill as he watches the glass drain in three long gulps.

"That's the name of her new boytoy."

"Who?"

"Kathy. My wife. Sorta."

"Sorta?" He can't help it, but he's doing his best to create plausible deniability. After all, Jack was a common name, and last names had only come into the picture once-neither half of the relationship had wanted, well, a relationship. He wasn't going to reveal that the only reason why the 'sorta' played into things was because the man in front of him refused to give the paperwork his signature.

"She wants to end it."

"And you don't."

"It's just-I'm catholic." He can't help the snort of laughter into his scotch.

"So am I. Didn't stop my two divorces."

"Yeah, but Kath-Kath was different. She was-Jesus. No, not Jesus. Jesus wasn't very attractive." Another beer disappeared, and he flagged down the bartender for refills for each of them. "Sharp as a razor." They didn't talk much, not after that first dinner exchange-after all, they didn't want to spend time together, just time in bed together. "Softer than a prayer."

The line is familiar, and it takes him a moment to place it, fighting the urge to smile. He'd never had pegged the detective as the sort to listen to the maudlin oh-pity-me music, but obviously, appearances were deceiving. "I'll sell you a watch." There's a moment of confusion passing across knit together eyebrows before the well-lubricated gears of the detective's mind click together, and nearly two hundred pounds of solid muscle dissolve into laughs.

"You have good taste, Jack. Why don't I just meet you at the bottom of a bottle of bargain scotch? C'mon, buy this fool some spirits and libations."

"It's not bargain, but I think I can buy you a round or two, detective."

"I could use it. He's a lawyer too, you know that? You know any other shysters named Jack, Jack?" He freezes for a second, but it's broken at the giggle emanating from the other man, quickly wiped off and replaced with a cold, nearly murderous glance. "Cause I'll rip the balls off of the bastard."

"Dozens." He replies, and it's not a lie. His is a common name, and for once he's thankful.

"That's a lot of leads then."

"Yes, it is."

"I should get started on finding the sonofabitch."

"Take it from someone who's seen his fair share of failed relationships, detective. They're never worth it."

"They're always worth it."

"I'd hate to run into you on the wrong end of the stand, detective." There's another snort of laughter into a beer.

"She's always been the only one, you know? My better half. I mean, sure, I've dated other women, but she's...she's it."

"Couldn't handle the job?"

"That, some other shit."

"It's always the other shit, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is." There's a silent pause between them while they drink, and he thinks that maybe, under different circumstances, they could have been friends.

"This job though-it doesn't help. Seeing all these bastards who get off on rape." There's a pause while the detective drinks, and he knows that there is more coming, and he waits, "All these assholes that think it's all right to beat their wives. Their kids." He's just drunk enough to have the wall he's carefully constructed crack, ever so slightly.

"Fifty years ago, it was called parenting." The detective's eyebrows raised, ever so slightly, at his quiet comment.

"My dad thought so too. To bastards." He takes the offered toast, and he drinks, a heavy feeling in his stomach. This was someone who he knew understood and he'd gone and betrayed that understanding. He wonders, briefly, why he'd never taken the time to get to know the detective. He knows why-he never really has to deal with the man. His precinct had their own ADA, their cases rarely came across his desk, and only when it was because circumstances changed. Because Branch reassigned cases to him. When rape victims became parts of unrelated homicides.

He barely knew the detectives he worked closely with. Green, Fontana, Lupo-he hardly knew any of them. Why would he get to know one he barely had any interaction with? Perhaps, it was for the better. Perhaps, they should have never had their paths cross. After all, they were strikingly similar. Two blue-collar catholic boys, both in careers that they had come to love despite not particularly being what they'd dreamed of. Both dogged and determined in their search for justice.

He'd wondered, briefly, when he'd first met Kathy downtown, why they'd so readily fallen into conversation. Why she'd agreed to go to dinner with him, why she agreed to a date after the first-why she'd been the one to suggest a second date. Now he knows the reason, and when his phone rings in his pocket, flashing her name, he hits the ignore button, a sick sort of feeling rising in his throat. He'd played proxy before, and he's never been fond of the feeling. "I-it's late." He doesn't want to be here. It feels like he's double crossing someone that didn't deserve to be double-crossed.

"C'mon counsellor, I see your red label and I raise you one more." He considers it, thinking that he's not quite drunk enough yet, but changes his mind, shaking his head and reaching for the coat he's sitting on.

"I really should get going. Trials in the morning."

"Yeah, I guess." He slaps a fifty on the bar, more than enough to cover what he's drank, and even what Eliot has drank since he arrived.

"I'll see you around, detective."

"Yeah. See you around." He's drunk, but not drunk enough for the knowledge of what he's been doing. Especially not when the phone rings again, ten minutes later, flashing her name again, and he answers, telling her that no, he wasn't busy and sure, stop on by. He's drunk, but he's still human. Even if he is just being the stand in. The understudy. He and the detective are more alike than he would have guessed,, and he thinks that maybe, in a different life they could have been friends, but for now, for now he's fine playing proxy.


End file.
